Another letter came in the mail the other day.
Another notification from the TD Bank regarding my father's estate.
He had passed away more than two years ago, and yet these letters still arrive in the mail.
After having closed everything out, completed all the required tasks of his estate, carrying out all the executrix duties that I was appointed with, this one last account keeps on keeping on.
Every few months I am notified by this letter that there are $.02 cents left remaining in this RRIF account.
An account that I know that I closed down and dispersed.
An account that should have long ago been shuttered and done away with.
But no.
There it is.
A constant reminder that my dad has passed away, and that there are $.02 cents left remaining in this particular RRIF account.
I have tried calling and emailing the bank, to no avail.
This notice persists on being mailed and delivered.
And so I have come to think of it as my dad's two cents.
He is still giving me his two cents.
He is still letting me know that he is and always will be my dad, my father, chiming in on what he thinks should be happening.
I can still hear him burst into laughter when I tell him something about my plans or about something that has happened.
The laughter is usually in response to something that I think is monumental, but he sees otherwise.
Through the wisdom of age and experience, and non-stop listening to CBC Radio, he is able to drill down to what is really important.
And what is not.
I will give him that as a father.
He was a good dad, a good parent.
He always set me on the straight path, nudging me gently towards an interesting career in tv when I decided to go back to college to study journalism.
He persuaded me to give my two weeks notice when I was so done with my 20+ year tv career that I just wanted to walk out the door one Friday night and never look back.
I guess that was a good idea, in hindsight.
He offered me, without my asking, interest free loans for cars and courses and veterinarians, knowing my character was such that I would pay him back diligently and then some.
He paid for a trip for us to fly out to B.C. to visit with (and check up on) my younger brother, and then paid for my brother to fly out to visit us several times from B.C.
He treated us both to lunches and dinners at Swiss Chalet more often than I can count.
He always encouraged, never doubted, always gently suggesting towards the right path, not demanding or commanding, as some parents do.
He was generous to a fault, treating this and that and the other, and always buying flowers, gifting coins and collectible stamps, and other things that he considered worthy keepsakes.
I think of him now with mixed feelings, even as I always did when he was alive.
He was always so proud of me and my accomplishments, my career in tv, my writing and anything else I did.
He had molded me to be conscientious and accountable and to finish what I started.
These fatherly things and dad-like contributions are something for which I will always be grateful.
And so now every time I receive a notice from the TD bank in the mail that my dad has $.02 cents left in his account, I have chosen to take it as a notice that my dad is somewhere, somehow, still giving me his two cents.
Keeping me on the up and up, nose to the grindstone, doing the right thing.
Not that I would ever do otherwise; I was parented much better than that, and I inherited all the good DNA.
Anyways, dad, if you are still giving me your two cents, thank you for that.
I still hear your voice, your laughter, your "Oh, Sharry!" (your nickname for me), your English accent, your occasional derisive sniff, and think of you every time I am in the grocery store as I pick up some flowers.
Because I know that's what you would have done.